Page 62 of Speak from the Heart

Maybe he could love me.

It’s a silly dream, more like make-believe, but I’m willing to the live in the fantasy for a little while.

He stands as I settle from the high of his mouth. He tugs at his shirt, pulling it from the back of his neck up and over his head. I’m still wearing my dress, but he doesn’t seem to care. He makes no attempt to undress me. His eyes watch mine as he shucks off his pants, his underwear going with it.

“We forgot a condom the other night,” he states. “I forgot one,” he says, taking the responsibility.

Right. Protection, because getting pregnant would not be a good idea. I hate these conversations, and I nod as if I agree to something. He reaches down for his pants, and I watch as he opens the package and covers himself. He braces himself on one hand and aligns his body with mine. His eyes wander over the dress still spread around my hips and covering my midsection.

“This dress is like a garden.” He whispers his thoughts as his eyes trail over the bright red flowers with black stamens. “I want to pick every flower.”

His words make me smile as he releases himself to reach up and squeeze my breast. He easily slips into me, and my head tilts back. I groan at the welcome sensation of him connected with me. I want his mouth. I want his weight, but he’s watching me take him— surging forward and slipping back, entering me over and over again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. He sounds astonished by the thought. He’s beautiful as well, straining over me, holding himself off while he witnesses our bodies coming together. The connection is overwhelming in the darkness of the room, lit only by some far-off light source. The quiet summer sounds chirp through the window, and it feels . . . almost magical.

His pace increases, and his fingers reach down to my sensitive hood and stroke me tenderly. The juxtaposition between the hard friction of his thrusts and the gentle touch of his fingertips is too much.

“I . . .” My breath hitches as I feel the sensation building once again. One hand clutches at his wrist near the side of my body. The other wraps over his other wrist closest to my center. I’m not assisting him as much as holding on. I don’t want this feeling to end. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want to lose him.

“Emily, darlin’,” he warns as he moves faster, the pressure deeper. My knees bend upward. My heels brace on the edge of the bed as Jess’s eyes lower to where we connect. It’s so raw, so real, and I dissolve again. Like tiny stars scattering, I separate into a million tiny pieces and then return to myself.

I wrap my legs around his waist, desperate to hold him to me, and Jess removes his hand from my center. His arms cage me in as he rocks harder, chasing his own detonation. Eventually, he stills, and for a second, I wish he was bare. I wish I could feel him release into me. I give up the thought as I watch his face. His jaw clenches. His eyes briefly close, and then his lids pop open.

“I lied,” he whispers, glancing down at my dress. “I don’t want to pluck all the flowers in this garden of a dress. I only want to pick one flower.”

The intensity in his denim-colored eyes tells me what he means or rather who.

He’d choose me, and I want to choose him.